


The Usurper

by twistedchick



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 17th Century France, Gen, Old Friends, manners not morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: Porthos thinks he is getting old; Athos is certain there is another answer.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



“ – And so you see, my dear Athos,” Porthos said, grimacing, “I have become an old man and my life is over.”

“Ehrm. What?” Athos raised an eyebrow. He had lost the train of Porthos’s thought some fifteen minutes earlier, and instead had been contemplating the light of a candle through the color of the wine in his glass. The wine appeared distinctly muddy, though its taste was unchanged. He took another sip to check.

“My life is over,” Porthos said again. He gestured at himself. “I have become an old man.”

“Nonsense. We’re the same age and I have not succumbed to decrepitude.” Athos put the glass on the table. “What are you talking about? I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention; I think this wine is corked.”

Porthos immediately picked up his own glass, stared at it, and tossed it into the fireplace. “You’re right. Barkeep! A new bottle and two glasses here.” He took Athos’s glass away and tossed it as well. “This one’s corked.”

The innkeeper hurried over to where they sat at a comfortable table away from the bar. “Would messieurs perhaps prefer a bottle of the Beaujolais nouveau that came only yesterday from my brother’s vineyard?” Upon receiving two emphatic nods, he scurried away and returned with the bottle and fresh glasses, opened the bottle, poured for them and stood back a step, anxiously awaiting their verdict. 

Athos took a long, slow sip, swallowed and nodded. Porthos held up his glass, swirled it to check the color, thrust his nose in to check the aroma and finally took a small sip. “Zounds, it’s very good. Tell your brother so.”

“I will, monsieur. Thank you, messieurs.” And the innkeeper retreated behind the bar, well aware that he had escaped the expense and time of having to restore his establishment after a Musketeers’ brawl.

“Now. You were saying?” Athos cocked his head to listen. “And none of these specious conclusions until I have heard the facts of the matter.”

Porthos settled back and began again. “As you know, I have been paying court to the widowed Countess di Perone for several years now, and I could have sworn we were happy together. She gives me little gifts,” he pointed at the jeweled handle on the knife with which he was carving a slice off a sausage hanging nearby, “and is always generous with larger ones, when they are needed. She is kind, she is beautiful, she has the smile of an angel and the laughter of heaven’s own music.” He pulled a chunk of bread off the loaf that sat on the table, placed the sausage on it and took a bite, washing it down with the Beaujolais. “She not only laughs at my jokes but tells worse ones, and when we are together –"

Athos held up a hand to stop the flood of words. “I will take it as read that when you are together all is well.”

“All is very well, indeed.” 

“So? What has upset you?”

“She holds a salon at her place in that street facing the park, every Tuesday. It’s full of the best people, and the conversation is always lively and interesting. Mind, I don’t understand the half of it sometimes, but that doesn’t matter. It is a place to be seen, and to be known as someone is interested in matters of intellect. That’s what matters.” Porthos took a longer drink. “But when I went there yesterday, someone else was sitting in the chair that she has kept only for me for the last two years.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “A house guest?”

“I hope not.”

“Describe this person to me.” Athos leaned back against the wall and considered.

“Young, about the age of our Gascon, perhaps a year or two older. Well-dressed, for someone who seemed to have just arrived in Paris – all his clothes were new, even his boots. Groomed to the height of fashion, hair curled precisely, one ring on his left hand, possibly a family crest, I didn’t see it closely enough.”

“Were you introduced?”

Porthos shook his head, dejected. “I am ashamed to say that I retreated. What was I to do? This was my ladylove’s salon; I could not whip out my sword and challenge this impertinent newcomer to a duel in the midst of discussions of scientific discovery, or the latest news from the settlement in the wilds of Acadia. It would make me look foolish in the extreme. So I withdrew. I doubt she even knew I was there.”

Athos refilled Porthos’s glass and his own, and took a drink. “That was a strategic withdrawal, not a retreat. You cannot give up; you don’t even know the name of the enemy.”

“This is true.” Porthos ate the rest of his sausage and bread and wiped his hands on his trousers. “But what else could he be but a rival?” His moustache drooped. “I have been replaced. But why? It could not be that I am lacking in virility, unless my lady has forgotten last weekend already.”

“I am certain that she has not forgotten last weekend,” Athos said firmly. “This must all be a misunderstanding. The Countess di Perone, you said? Let me consider what I know of the lineage of French nobility… In her birth family she has three brothers and two sisters, am I correct? The two sisters took the veil, and are of no further use to us here. The oldest brother is unmarried, the second is involved in diplomatic matters somewhere in Italy, and the third has at least one son.”

“Two of them, not yet breeched.” Porthos chuckled. “I would not be threatened by boys in the care of their governess. Though when it comes to governesses…”

“But what of the Count di Perone? Had he any kin of note?” Athos shook his head. “I don’t recall any of the name.”

“The Count was many years older than the Countess, and succumbed to old age in the third year of their marriage. The family was greatly affected by the wars, I believe; many who would have been in the line of inheritance were soldiers. She managed to retain the majority of the Count's holdings through an arrangement with the cousin who inherited the title, since he prefers the simple country life.”

“Very practical, and convenient. But it brings us no nearer to discovering who this young interloper might be, and how you could be rid of him.”

“There you are, my friends!” D’Artagnan’s unmistakable voice rang out over the background noise of the street, as he had just thrown the door open. “You must meet this gentleman, who is now the newest of the Guards but wishes with all his heart, as I did, to become a musketeer. I promised to introduce him to you!”

D’Artagnan pulled up a chair from the next table while the man who had been sitting on it was standing, substituting a stool instead (the difference wasn’t noticed until the man leaned back and found no back to lean against.) He placed it next to Athos’s chair and took for himself the last open seat, next to Porthos. 

The man who had followed in D’Artagnan’s shadow sat down now, somewhat in Athos’s shadow. Athos, glancing sideways, saw that he was young, handsome, well dressed and had new boots. A suspicion grew in his mind, but he kept his customary expression, simply nodding in greeting to the man.

“My friends,” D’Artagnan said, “may I present Antonio di Perone, the newest of His Majesty’s Guards. Antonio, these are my friends, Athos and Porthos of the King’s Musketeers. They are wise; they can be your guides in all things. Where is Aramis, by the way? I was hoping he would be here also.”

“Treville sent him on an errand to Marseilles, I don’t know why. He should be back next week,” Athos said. He glanced at Porthos, who had turned red, then white, and with the announcement of the newcomer’s name seemed to be returning to his customary skin color.

“You are Antonio di Perone?” Porthos said slowly. “In what way are you related to the Countess di Perone?”

“You are M. Porthos?” Antonio rose and bowed toward Porthos. “She is my father’s late cousin’s wife, and she speaks so very highly of you. I had hoped to meet you at the salon yesterday, but you did not come, and both she and I were disappointed. She wanted to introduce us so that you might perhaps help me find my way in this great city.” Antonio blushed slightly, and not in an unbecoming way. “I have always lived in the country, you see.”

“Ah!” Porthos stood, reached across the table, took the young man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I will be delighted to do that, my dear young man. Barkeep! Another bottle of this Beaujolais and two more glasses for my friends, and some of your best food to go with it. We have a new friend to welcome!”

**Author's Note:**

> Arithanas, thank you for asking for a story about these two; I have been wanting to write about them for a while. And it gave me a chance to reread one of my favorite books.
> 
> Many thanks to wyomingnot and zlabya for beta-reading!


End file.
